


Dreaming of Violets

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 07:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: "But if I’m honest, I wouldn’t mind having something like what Gale and Madge have, something like what Prim will no doubt have. No, I don’t need anyone else, but I might want someone one day."Sequel to Snowstorm, which I recommend you read for this to make sense.





	Dreaming of Violets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buttercupbadass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercupbadass/gifts).



> as requested! this ended up being two times longer than I intended and about fifteen times schmaltzier than any in Panem AU has the right to be but I guess that's on brand for me. loosely, loosely based on some Irish folk magic concerning violets and the fact that I am head over heels in love with Porchwood's sweetheart ribbon headcanon - enjoy!

The girl Caroline Abberford was before she was my mother is a mystery to me. We have no photos of my Grandma Lissy, the apothecary, but according to my father, she had red hair and eyes the color of blue phlox. My mother has the same eyes. She’s never told me about her life before the Seam. I’m not friendly enough with any townsfolk who might’ve known her as a girl to ask. But as I watch her pour milk into a pot, I sort of wish I had asked someone. Maybe they would’ve told me my Grandma Lissy had some hedgewitch in her, and maybe she passed it on to her daughter. There’s an intense expression on my mother’s face as she turns the pot, swirling it clockwise, then counterclockwise. For some reason, a thrill goes down my spine, and then I have to fight the urge to snicker, because this is nonsense. I’m humoring my mother, that’s all. I would tell her she’s wasting valuable food, but since everything we own really belongs to Prim and she isn’t complaining, I keep my mouth shut. 

I must not be doing a good job concealing my amusement because from her perch on the counter, Prim gives me a reproachful glance. Same wide, phlox eyes. “Quit that,” it seems to say. Almost losing Prim to the Games brought us closer, my mother and I, but I don’t understand her in the same way my sister does. They share a knack for medicine and the same knowledge of plant lore my father had. I envy them that connection to him. 

“What is this meant to do again?” 

My mother looks up at me. I realize with a pang of guilt that she can read the skepticism in my face, but she answers my question as though there wasn’t any scorn to it. “It’s an old piece of folk magic. I haven’t tried it in years. It mightn’t even work.” She browses the herbs hanging in bundles above the sink. “First, we need — oh. I thought I gathered some.” 

“Some what?” Prim is entranced. I’m amazed at her capacity for wonder, after everything she’s been through. Before the Games, I would have put it down to her being naive. I don’t have that excuse anymore. She’s stronger than I am, stronger than I’ll ever be. The fact that she can appreciate my mother’s funny ritual is proof of that. 

“Violets,” my mother says. “A basketful of violets.” 

“There’re violets by Gale’s,” I offer. “I can get some if you want.” I’ll be of greatest help away from the house.

“Are they blue violets?” 

“Probably.” I shrug. Truth is, I have no idea what color they are. I only remember Madge telling me how delighted she was when they blossomed at the fence line. If I go to get them now I can see baby Roan before his bedtime.

“They need to be blue,” says my mother. “That’s very important.”

Prim shakes her head. “I don’t think they are, Katniss,” she says. “I think they’re yellow violets.”

Why call them violets if they come in yellow? I grumble inwardly. 

“I know!” Prim says. “I think there’s a clump of blue ones under the apple tree in town.”

“By the bakery,” my mother confirms. 

“I’ll get those then,” I say. “A basketful?” 

My mother nods. “It’ll be best if you get there before sundown.” 

Like a shot I’ve got the vegetable basket slung on one arm and am heading for town. It’s not as far of a walk there from Victors’ Village as it would be from the Seam, but I’m in no rush, and by the time I’m standing in front of the apple tree, sunset is underway, pink and—ugh—violet. 

Prim’s right though. There’s a ring of buds nestled in the grass and roots at the base of the apple tree. I’ve knelt to pick them before it hits me. Prim and my mother couldn’t have known, but the memory of rain and burnt loaves comes over me with such force I catch my breath. I turn, half anticipating to see the angry baker’s wife shouting at me, her son peering from behind her apron. The baker’s wife isn’t there, but as if my thoughts have summoned him, the screen door opens and closes with a snap, and Peeta’s standing on the porch, holding a set of keys. He must be locking up. He sees me at once and smiles. I can’t stand his smile. Bright, inviting, dimpling his cheeks. It’s a stupid smile.

“Can I get you something?” he says. 

“I’m here for a flower.” 

“Sure,” he says. “I can get you flour. How much do you need?” 

“Flowers,” I clarify. “My mother needs flowers for … a recipe.”

“Oh,” he laughs. “That I’m afraid I can’t help you with.” 

“No need. There’s some here,” I say as he locks the bakery door. “There’s lots.” 

He kneels beside me. He smells of cardamon and a lot of other spices I wouldn’t know the name for. Up close, his eyes betray that he’s tired. His shirt needs ironing and his right thumb is sporting a shiny burn. One of his meticulously double-knotted shoelaces is coming loose. 

“Hey,” I say. “Long day?” 

“Hi.” It comes out like an exhale he’s been holding for a long time and the day’s tension goes out of his shoulders. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse.” 

I bet he has. Before I became Peeta’s friend, I assumed townsfolk had it easier than us Seam folk. In some ways I was right; in some ways they do. They can afford not to send their sons and daughters to the mines, can have a couple more sets of clothes, a nicer cut of meat, a heartier loaf of bread. But we face the same injustices of the Capitol, the same Reaping. I think of Roan, barely a month old, with a Seam father and a town mother. Madge’s connections will keep him from having to take tesserae like Gale’s family did, but when he turns twelve — no. I can’t think about that. Instead, I retie Peeta’s shoelace. “There. One thing better.” 

“Thank you.” His tone is soft, as though I’ve done something far kinder. 

This is one of the problems about being friends with Peeta Mellark. Granted, there aren’t many problems. Most of the time, it’s nice. It’s more than nice. I trade squirrels with his father on Monday morning, and then I’ll come back during Peeta’s shifts to bring him things from the woods: raspberries or mint or fennel, things he can bake with. I keep telling him it’s not a trade, but he insists on giving me leftovers: lemon cake, maple iced cookies, raisin bread. I’ve taken him to the Hob once or twice. I make it a habit to check up on the people who helped me sustain my family for years. Peeta’s out of place, but he says he enjoys going because he likes being with me. Just because he likes being with me. That’s the problem. Because when he says things like that, I get this ache in my chest that I never got around Gale and it scares me. 

“You’re welcome,” I say. I feel awkward and turn back to the violets, only to realize that they’re not violets. The dainty fairy cap bloom is unmistakable. “These are bluebells. They’re supposed to be violets.” 

“What’re these for again? Tea or something? My family might have some tea I can lend you if you need.” 

“No, it’s — ” I’m not about to tell Peeta that my mother is cooking up a potion in our kitchen. “It’s for violet water. It’s like perfume.” That sounds reasonable: lots of girls use honeysuckle water to make their hair smell sweet. “Course we can’t make it with bluebells.” I stand, brushing dirt from my pants in frustration. “I’ll go check along the fence line in the Seam.” 

“Good idea.”

“Uh—thanks.” I clear my throat. 

I can’t figure out why this conversation feels uncomfortable. Before Gale and Madge’s wedding, every interaction Peeta and I had was charged with unspoken words. For the past few months, it’s been easy for us to talk, tell stories, argue. Peeta’s got an unexpected sarcastic streak that can make me laugh until I’m teary. There’s none of that now. 

“I’ll um — ” I turn to go.

“Well, hey, how about I come with you?” 

I raise my brow at him. After you’ve been out in the forest at night, been treed by a feral dog or stalked by a bobcat, a walk through the backroads of the Seam is nothing to be scared of. At the moment, I’m more trepidatious about being alone with whatever weird energy is between us. 

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he says, reading my mind, “but we haven’t caught up in a week or two. And it’s a really pretty night.” 

It is a pretty night. The sky’s a haze of orange, reflecting in storefront windows. There’s a faint breeze, and crickets are starting to chirr. Simple things that you have to stop to notice in our world. Peeta has an eye for them, as does Prim. They’d get along, the artist and the healer. 

Weird energy or not, I don’t want Peeta to go. “I’d like that. Unless I’d be keeping you from — ” 

“No, no,” he assures me, “I was actually on my way to see if you — yeah. No, yeah. Let’s go.”

“Great.” 

I’m grateful for the house in Victors’ Village, with its running water and heat and a hundred other things we never had before Prim’s Games, but it’s never felt like home. This familiar track—past the mine entrances, over the abandoned dam, and down into the valley where the foothills loom beyond the fence—feels like home. I can feel my steps lighten as I hear the familiar eerie clink of cans and glass bottles hanging from trees outside ramshackle houses. There’s little to no electricity here: people get by with coal stoves, kerosine lamps, and trash can fires. In the gathering dusk, the miserable shantytown where I was born seems to glow: a hard-edged, scrappy beauty.

Gale’s house is near his mother’s. I head straight down through the maze of houses without a second thought. There’re fireflies out tonight, and a handful of children who have features like mine are chasing them with curious hands. One girl nearly runs into us as she springs from a stump in pursuit. Her mother shouts from a window that she needs to be more careful, but Peeta reaches up and cups the firefly in one gentle palm. 

“Here,” he says, bending down to show the girl. Her friends race over to us, watching Peeta intently. “Take a look.” He opens his palm just enough to let them see the firefly’s red head, sleek black wings, and green-yellow abdomen, pulsing with light. The kids are agape, though I imagine some of them are as fascinated by Peeta himself as they are with the firefly. 

“Alright, time to go free,” he says, releasing it. The kids scamper away. Peeta stands with a strange, forlorn look on his face and my chest ties itself in several complex knots at the sight. 

“What?” I ask. 

“Nothing.” We walk past a few more rocking chairs, rusty wheelbarrows, disused tires, and then Peeta says bitterly, “Fireflies have more freedom than those kids do.” 

Huh. That’s the sort of thing I’d expect Gale to say, but not Peeta. “It makes you wonder…” I say, but elect not to finish that sentence. 

“Makes you wonder what?” 

I shouldn’t have said anything. This is one topic I’m not confident I want to broach with Peeta Mellark. I toy with the end of my braid. We’ve come to a shallow creek you can jump if you get a head start, but I pull up short.

“Just — uh — makes you wonder why people have kids in the first place,” I mumble. “That’s all.” 

“Oh. Does it?”

“Does it not make you wonder?” I say, frowning. 

He shakes his head. Mosquitoes are thick in the air and I smack one dead against my neck. “We should go,” I say, partly because I don’t want to get eaten alive, partly because I can feel a serious difference of opinion brewing and I don’t like it. I take a few steps and clear the creek in one bound. Peeta doesn’t follow immediately. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel very vulnerable. I’m worried I’ve offended him somehow, but then he joins me on the other side of the water. We get out of range of the mosquitoes before he says, 

“I think … I always thought … people have kids in the hope that they can make the world … a better place for them.” 

“Isn’t that sort of naive?” I ask. Hope is a pleasant sentiment, but hope doesn’t feed hungry mouths. 

“Possibly,” he says in a way that tells me he doesn’t really think it’s naive at all. I’m intrigued, because this is one of the things that’s been bothering me since Gale and Madge got married. Gale’s always wanted kids, loads of them, and he’s head over heels for his son. I mean, I love Roan too, but Gale won’t shut up about him. I’m glad for him, but I don’t get it. 

“How could this get any better?” I say, gesturing around. “What do they think’s going to happen? Someone’s going to — ?” I bite my tongue before I can say “end the Games?”

“Well,” Peeta considers, “I don’t mean things will get better all at once. It’s small things. Look at Gale and Madge.” 

“What about them?” 

“When was the last time someone from the Seam married someone from town?” 

I ponder this. It’s not as though the Seam and town are segregated on purpose, but it’s a rare thing for us to marry across those tacit status lines. I think the last pair I can remember other than Gale and Madge is — “My parents,” I say. 

“And now the mayor’s daughter is married to a miner,” Peeta says. “That’s unheard of.” 

“I don’t see how that’s improving Twelve,” I argue. 

“It means we’re changing,” he says. “It means …” He lowers his voice. “It means we’re more united as a district … and that’s not nothing.” 

What is he saying? Actually, I know what he’s saying, but I’m taken aback at the implication. Division is the best weapon that the Capitol has against us. The most obvious division is the one they create every August by pitting our children against each other in the arenas. I don’t think they fabricated the division within 12, but it can’t hurt them that it exists. A united district. What a thought. A wonderful, rebellious thought. 

“I guess, when you look at it that way … ” When you look at it that way, when you see having children as its own act of rebellion, I can see Peeta’s point. He’s not going to convince me to have kids, but I can understand why he’d want to.

Wait, what? 

A flush of heat shoots up my neck to the tips of my ears. I’m glad it’s dusk because my face must be like beetroot. I make the mistake of looking at him; his own blush is easier to make out on his pale skin. I’m debating dropping my basket to break the tension when the music saves me. 

It’s a fiddle, playing a song older than the Valley Song or Prim’s lullaby: a slow, faraway twang, refreshing as the wind that brings it up the road to us. It sends a skittering of goosebumps up my arms. 

“What is that?” Peeta whispers. I’m about to reply but I’m silenced by a sound I never thought I’d hear. Gale Hawthorne is singing. 

The yard next to Hazelle Hawthorne’s is overrun with weeds. Madge, in a feed sack gown, is washing clothes by gas lamp. Roan is secured to her in a bunting and she calls out to Gale as he comes up the road. “Are those the words?” 

“They’re what my Pa taught me at least,” Gale calls back, nudging open the gate. “The song’s very old. From a place over the sea.”

I don’t catch what they say next, as my friend leans in to peck Madge’s nose and the top of their son’s head. It’s such an intimate thing I feel like a voyeur and become very interested in the ground at my feet until I hear Madge speak again, louder, teasing. 

“Go get that soot off and come help me with the clothes.” 

“You’re the bossiest wife I’ve ever had, town girl.” 

“I’m the only wife you’ve ever had, miner boy!” 

Gale yanks his grimy shirt over his head and throws it into the washing tub, splashing suds, as a parting shot, but he’s got a grin on his face as he takes the steps into their house. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were sweethearts their whole lives,” says Peeta. 

“Gale promised me he’d learn to love Madge,” I say. 

“Seems like he has,” says Peeta. 

I’m stung by jealousy. It’s not that I’m jealous of Madge. Gale and I would never have worked out; he and Madge have — and that’s just it. 

Everything’s changing around me. I feel adrift. Gale has a family. Prim doesn’t need me the way she did when we were younger. She’s not my baby sister anymore. She’s a grown woman, a victor, a mentor, the provider for our family. She’s got her own plans and aspirations. One day she’ll be a healer like my mother, maybe even better, and one day she might meet a good man and she’ll be a natural mother and I — 

I’ve told myself for years I’m never getting married. It’s a risk I don’t need to take. I can hunt and trade for the rest of my days and do fine. 

But if I’m honest, I wouldn’t mind having something like what Gale and Madge have, something like what Prim will no doubt have. No, I don’t need anyone else, but I might want someone one day. I’d be picky though. I’m not giving my heart away to anyone. He’d have to be loyal, like my father. Brave, like Prim. Sympathetic, like my mother. Determined, like Gale. Steady, kind, clever, and easy to talk to, like — 

“Violets!” I yelp, apropos of nothing, startling my companion. “We need the violets!” 

I make a beeline through the meadow to the fence, scanning the many plants that manage to spill over from the forest, but I’m processing about as much about them as I’d process from a boring textbook. I could be surrounded by violets and not notice. 

Peeta grabs my elbow to keep me from trampling the flowers I’m seeking. “Here,” he says. The light’s almost gone, but I can tell he’s right. These are violets, and what’s more, they’re not yellow. I’m careful not to snag my clothes on the barbed wire of the fence as I kneel to pick them. Peeta kneels beside me. They’re tiny flowers, so we pluck with our fingers. I’m struck by the sight of our hands, darting around each other’s to drop violets in the basket. Whatever my mother’s making better be worth the frantic squirreling my heart’s doing. The basket is almost full when our hands mistime a movement and meet over our collection. There’s a half second’s hesitation, then Peeta takes mine and clasps it in his. 

“Katniss, can we talk?” 

“We are talking,” I say. 

“No I mean — ” It’s not often that Peeta Mellark flounders for words, but he’s struggling. “This is like December all over again,” is what he settles on. “We’re not really talking. Or when we are, we’re dancing around something.” He hasn’t let go of my hand. His thumb flutters over my knuckles. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I don’t know if he ever realizes, the effect he has. I can’t blame him though because it’s as if I’m realizing it, really realizing what he means to me, for the first time. “Aren’t we?” 

“Maybe.” That’s a lie. “Yes,” I admit. It goes against everything I’ve ever imagined for myself but I don’t care. “Yes,” I repeat, and a sense of relief overtakes me. 

“That’s what I thought. Okay, so.” He takes my other hand. “Um — ” For a split second he’s frozen on the verge of speaking but nothing’s forthcoming. His expression is simultaneously so serious and yet so absurd that I can’t help it. My nerves bubble up and over and I collapse laughing. Peeta does the same and like that, we’re back to normal. I straighten up, trying to stifle hiccups in my jacket sleeve. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he jokes, clutching at his ribs. He rolls his shoulders to loosen up. “Okay. Katniss,” he says, “this evening, after I locked up, I was going to come by your place and I was going to ask you— ” 

I’m not an impulsive person. You can’t be a hunter and be impulsive. You’ll never catch anything. But if I’m not impulsive just this once, I’ll regret it. Besides, I’m never going to be able to form an adequate explanation for what I’m feeling. Words are his thing; actions are mine. I surge forward and kiss him square on the mouth.

I don’t have time to get concerned that I might be overstepping because Peeta gathers me up in his arms with such eagerness that we almost lose our balance and crash into the violet patch. I right us, digging my knees into the earth. The irony of kissing Peeta Mellark a hundred yards from the house of the person to whom I’ve been disavowing romance for the past eleven years is not lost on me and I laugh again, breaking the kiss. One look at his face and I am blushing furiously. 

“Sorry,” I get out, “I interrupted you.” 

The moon is rising, and the way Peeta’s looking at me, you’d have thought I plucked her from the sky and handed her to him. “No, I think you about summed it up. Though,” he adds sheepishly, “I’d be open to more summarization.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” I warn him, but he completely ignores the warning and kisses me again. It’s embarrassing how easily I melt into his touch, and I promptly decide Prim is never hearing about any of this, because if she does, I will never live it down. 

“You have no idea,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do that since, I don’t know, since forever.” He seems to be deliberating whether or not to say something more. 

“What?” 

“Let’s walk back,” he says, “and I’ll tell you on the way.” 

We don’t have a real curfew, or at least, not a rigidly enforced one, like Prim says they do in 11, but she and my mother will have expected me back by now. I get the basket. 

Night has fallen and we have to be cautious of our steps as we cross the creek. Luckily, the moon is nearly full, and I could find my way around the Seam in my sleep. It’s no trouble making our way back to town, where street lights burn. We could talk now, but neither of us does. I like it, the comfortable hush. 

We pass by the schoolyard. There’s a lone swing that creaks in the wind. Kids usually draw sticks to decide who gets to use it. 

We pass by the seamstress’s shop. A dress is displayed in the window: a cotton gown, the color of rosemary sprigs, with cheap lace around the collar, the sort of thing my mother might’ve worn as a girl. 

We’re in the archway in front of Victors’ Village when I say, “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Peeta stops. The fountain in the village center plashes and the crickets are going crazy somewhere in the topiaries. “I had this whole thing I was gonna say.” He fixates on Haymitch Abernathy’s dark porch, pensive. He takes a deep breath. “I was going to come and ask if you’d let me court you.” 

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

If you take up with someone in 12, it could be a brief, passionate fling, conducted behind shops or at the Slag Heap. It could be, but in our world, where food is scant and surety is scanter, people don’t tend to walk out on each other. Some people date, most people court. Nine times out of ten it’ll end in a toasting anyway. 

I’ve seen town girls with sweetheart ribbons or wildflowers in their hair and thought how unbearably mawkish it was. A red ribbon makes for terrible camouflage in the woods, and flowers attract bees. And what for? To wear borrowed clothes for a day? To swell up like a stray cat in kitting season? To love your children and lose them to the Games? I don’t care if having children is an act of hope. How can Peeta want that for me or for himself? How can anyone want that? 

“Or if you don’t want — ”

“I do want.” I want the boy with the bread. I want his stories and I want his wit and I want the way he argues back. I want a sweetheart ribbon, tucked under my hunting cap, practical and sentimental in one. I want that stupid smile and those kisses. I want things I shiver to think about. “I want you.” 

“Katniss.” He reaches for me, but I grip his wrists. I have to do this, even if it ruins everything. It’s not fair to mislead him. 

“Listen, Peeta. If this goes somewhere … if this were to work out like you’re hoping … ” I pull away. “I don’t want kids. I’m never having them. I won’t risk it.” 

“I know,” he says. His lips twitch sadly, but he’s not surprised. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” I flare up. “That’s not what you want.” 

“You’re such a dreamer for someone who thinks they’re a pragmatist,” he sighs. His hands frame my face. “I don’t want whatever dream family or dream girl you’ve thought up for me, Katniss. I spent a solid eleven years in love with a dream and I woke up last December. I want the real thing. I want you. If you don’t want kids, I can make peace with that.” 

“That’s not fair to you.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things in our lives that aren’t fair,” he says. “This doesn’t even rank. Besides, we’re not talking about hypothetical babies yet, Katniss. What we’re talking about is me spoiling you sick with fresh bread every day.”

“My sister is the richest woman in the District, you ridiculous man,” I say, pushing at him gently. I feel a stinging behind my eyes and a lump in my throat. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him to me, tiptoed up to rest my head against his shoulder. His fingers thread in my hair. 

“Please, Katniss.” It isn’t desperate, isn’t demanding. If I say no that’ll be the end of it. It’ll be like Gale last spring. No, it won’t, because this time I won’t be able to move on. 

“Just say yes already, dammit,” comes a drunken growl from Haymitch Abernathy’s porch. Peeta and I jerk apart.

12’s only other victor is as cantankerous and ornery as a goose, though Prim swears he’s secretly a mother hen. Funny way of showing it, but I guess he is nicer to my sister than he is to most people. He did choose her, when it came down to it. He sent her parachutes. He brought her home. 

The surly man trudges down his front steps and shouts towards my house, swinging a flask. “Primrose! Primrose! She didn’t get eaten by wolves!”

Our kitchen window opens and Prim pokes her head out. “I didn’t think she did, Haymitch!”

“I’ve got the flowers,” I say, raising the basket lamely. “I’ll be in in just a minute.”

“No rush. Peeta, you’re welcome to stay!” She darts back inside. Haymitch scowls at us as he slams his own door. Once the noise has ceased echoing, I turn to Peeta.

“Tell you what,” he says softly, “why don’t you think about it and tell me some other time?”

“Peeta, please don’t think — ” I plead. 

“I don’t,” he promises. “Of course I don’t. You need time. Whenever you have an answer, whatever that answer is, come tell me.” 

“I will,” I swear, overwhelmed by gratitude. “Thank you.”

He kisses my forehead lingeringly. “Goodnight, Katniss.” 

“Goodnight,” I whisper. I watch him until he’s out of sight. Then, like a moth in cold weather, my body moves slowly past the fountain, into the house, the hallway, the kitchen. My mother and Prim are sharing tea over the counter. 

“Did Peeta not want to stay?” Prim queries when she sees me. 

“He — he had to go home.”

“Oh.” Do I detect disappointment in her voice? 

“That’s alright,” my mother says lightly. “You got the violets?”

“Yeah.” I give her the basket. 

“These are perfect!” my mother enthuses. “Prim, honey and ginger.” As my sister rummages around the spice cabinet, my mother takes a handful of the violets and cleans them in a bowl of water.

“Can I help?” I ask weakly. 

“There’s nothing much else to do,” my mother says. “We’ll add these.” She drops a scattering of purple petals into the milk that’s simmering on the stove. “The spice.” Prim pinches ginger into the pot and my mother drizzles in honey. “And stir.” The milk turns a faint cream color. The violets spiral around in the wake of the spoon. It’s hypnotic, like leaves caught in the eddy of a stream my father and I might've sat by in the woods. My father. He was a natural at love. He would have known what to say to Peeta. He always knew what to say to my mother. I want to ask her what she said to my father when he asked her to marry him. I want — 

I don’t want whatever she’s poured into mugs for us. Its odor is pungent. 

“Don’t drink it yet,” she says. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. Right before you lie down, drink the whole thing.”

“You never did tell us what this was for,” I say. 

“Good dreams,” she says. 

I frown. “Good dreams?” I say incredulously. 

“Good dreams,” she repeats, bluntly cryptic. I’m about to tell her this concoction’s more likely to give me an upset stomach than send me magical dreams but … I think of the nights Prim has woken me with screams and sweat, sobbing for Rue, for Thresh, for me, for help. If anyone deserves good dreams, it’s my sister. 

Prim and I bid our mother goodnight and take the mugs upstairs. I sit on my quilt and stare at the rosemaled footboard. 

“We should drink it while it’s hot,” Prim says, criss crossed on her own bed. I knock my mug against hers in a toast. Apprehensively, I take a sip. It’s not bad. Sharp and tangy for sure, but the honey gives it a manageable aftertaste. Prim smacks her lips. 

“What were you and Peeta talking about?” She sparkles with interest and a hint of mischief. 

Normally I’d be buoyed by her mood, but I’m still half in a daze. Prim waits patiently. I stare into my mug.

“Are you alright?” she says at last. “Did you argue?”

“I’m alright,” I say to the drink. I want to tell her, but I haven’t fully processed it myself, so instead I say, “I’m tired.” 

It’s not a satisfactory response, and it’s obviously not the truth, but my perceptive sister accepts it. She climbs into my bed and gives me a tight hug. “I love you,” she tells me and leaves it at that. 

I finish my drink and curl up under my blankets. The moon is brighter than ever, turning the room blue. I try not to think of bluebells and can’t think of anything but. That’s when something occurs to me. 

“Prim?” I whisper suspiciously. “Do violets really come in yellow?”

She yawns. “Course they do.” 

“But I’ve never seen one in Twelve. And the ones up by Gale’s are blue.” 

“Are they?”

“The flowers by the bakery are bluebells.” 

“Huh,” she says, way too innocently. 

“Prim!” I gasp, indignant. 

“Go to sleep!” she squeaks, and I hear a suppressed giggle as she rolls over. I hiss her name a couple more times but her silence is resolute. 

I flop back against my pillows, scowling at the ceiling. She sent me to the bakery on purpose!

I don’t think I’m going to be able to fall asleep with thoughts of Peeta and violets and how I’m planning to berate Prim for playing matchmaker swarming in my head, but at some point my brain has had enough and I drift off. 

I dream I’m wearing the rosemary dress from the seamstress’s. I’m sitting on the front porch of my old house in the Seam. It’s a mild autumn day. I’m brushing Prim’s hair, but my hands are not my own. They’re delicate and white and the left one sports a tarnished copper ring. My mother’s ring. My mother’s hands. 

“Mama?” Prim asks. She’s very young, maybe five or six. “Mama, why’d you fall in love with Papa?”

I pull her into my lap. “Because,” I say, memories that are not my own pouring from my lips, “the first time I heard him sing, I thought, as long as his music was in the air, nothing could ever go wrong. I thought, if I have that, I can go anywhere and be anyone. I can leave town, move to the Seam.” I kiss her nose. “He took some more time to win over, believe it or not.” 

“Really?” 

“Really. Not a very long time, but your father was afraid.” 

“Of what?”

“Of not being able to keep me and you and your sister fed and safe.” 

“But he does!” 

“He does,” I say in my mother’s voice. “Because he loves us so, so much, Prim. Don’t you ever forget that. He loves us more than he could ever fear anything.” 

“I love Papa,” Prim says.

“I do too.” 

“Caroline!” My heart leaps wildly. There he is, my father, coming home from the woods with his bow and arrows, beaming at us. “Where are my girls? Where is my evening primrose and my willow catkin?” 

“I’m here, Papa!” cries Prim, but as she hops up to fly to him she isn’t Prim anymore. She still has blue eyes, bluer than my mother’s, but she has my dark hair, my features. My daughter. 

“Where is my willow catkin?” comes the playful call again and it’s not my father, but hers. “Where is my Willow?” 

I wake early to rain drumming on the roof. Prim is still soundly asleep. It’s a stormy day outside. Mud puddles are pooling in the road, but I snatch up my boots and jacket anyway. My mother is reading in the living room. 

“Mom,” I confront her immediately. She turns a page in her book before she acknowledges me. 

“When Dad made up his mind,” I ask, “what did he do?”

She smiles knowingly. “He brought me violets.” 

Twenty minutes later, I’m out of breath and drenched to the skin, knocking on the bakery’s back door. 

“Katniss, what are you doing?” Peeta fusses as he opens it. “You’ll catch a cold.”

I curl my fingers around the wet bundle of violets in my palm and bite my lip to control a stupid smile of my own. “I have an answer for you,” I say.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not saying I'll write more in this universe anytime soon (work, life, etc), but if I were to, what sorts of things would y'all be interested in seeing? a toasting? Gale's reaction? Victor!Prim? other things I've not thought of? let me know!


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